The Sheikh's Bought Wife. Sharon Kendrick
Читать онлайн книгу.
woefully misjudged the occasion. There was nothing wrong with her knee-length tweed skirt or sweater, but they looked ridiculously understated in this grand and formal setting. And then another door was being flung open and there was Zayed, standing beside a carved marble fireplace, in which scented logs smouldered and crackled. He was wearing a flowing thawb in palest gold, which emphasised the burnished gleam of his skin and the raven blackness of his thick hair. Jane felt an unwelcome punch to her heart and the flicker of something warmer, low in her belly, as she met his flashing black eyes—though he did nothing to disguise the contemptuous curve of his lips as he stared at her.
‘Is this some kind of joke?’ he demanded.
She honestly didn’t know what he was talking about—and she was still so preoccupied with Cleo’s worries that she couldn’t work it out. ‘A joke, Your Royal Highness? I don’t understand.’
‘Really?’
His tone was imperious now, managing to be both haughty and condescending. She had never seen him pulling out all the royal stops before and Jane was suddenly reminded of why he was known as Zayed The Majestic in his homeland.
‘Yes, really,’ she said.
His eyes narrowed, throwing into relief his dark winged brows as his disbelieving gaze skated over her. ‘I invited you for dinner,’ he bit out. ‘Told you to take the rest of the day off in readiness and yet you turn up to my club looking like some suburban housewife on the school run!’
Jane felt her cheeks flush with colour but she kept her gaze steady as she returned his. ‘I don’t have any fancy clothes or jewels,’ she said stiffly.
‘But you have a hairbrush, don’t you? And a pretty dress? And surely it isn’t outside the realms of possibility that you might have reddened your lips and darkened your eyes so that it might please me to look upon you.’
‘I don’t particularly want you to look upon me and I certainly don’t care about pleasing you!’ Jane retorted, before she had time to think about her words. And then she wished she could have bitten them back because she was planning on asking him a favour, wasn’t she? Not making his face grow even darker with anger. She sucked in a breath and adopted a smile which felt as forced as the first Christmas decorations which had started appearing in the stores at the beginning of September. ‘I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude.’
‘No? Then I’d certainly hate to hear what you might come out with if you were.’
He seemed to be making a conscious effort not to lose his temper and very briefly Jane wondered why—because Zayed was not a man known for his patience.
‘Why don’t you try to relax and enjoy yourself?’ he continued condescendingly. ‘And I shall get someone to bring you a glass of champagne.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she didn’t really drink champagne—apart from that cheap fizz she’d had on the night of her eighteenth and which had made her wake up with a splitting headache. Why would she drink something associated with glamour? She wasn’t Cleo. But she took a foaming crystal goblet, which had been brought in on a tray by a butler, who had appeared as if by magic.
‘I have ordered food for us,’ said Zayed airily. ‘Since I do not wish to waste any more time than is necessary with you fussing over the menu.’
‘Shouldn’t you have checked with me first to check that I don’t have any food allergies?’ she said, annoyed by yet another display of his presumption and arrogance. ‘Since I don’t actually eat meat.’
‘Well, isn’t that a coincidence? Neither do I,’ he responded silkily, sitting down at the table, his powerful frame seeming to completely dwarf the gilt chair. ‘At least that’s one thing we do have in common. Sit, Jane.’
As she lowered herself stiffly into the chair opposite him, Zayed leaned back to study her a little more, still unable to believe just how drab she looked. He thought about his mistress in New York and how she might have appeared if she had been invited to dinner at his club—with her creamy breasts spilling out of one of those ‘bandage’ dresses she was so fond of, her slim legs encased in silk stockings and heels so high they should have carried a health warning.
But despite her bare face, her tied back hair and her appalling clothes sense, there was an intelligence about Jane Smith’s eyes which was rare to behold. She had an undiscernible air of complexity about her—as if there were layers to this woman which he’d never encountered before.
He shook his head, reminding himself that her peculiarities were as inconsequential and as forgettable as a brief breeze which wafted through the high heat of summer. She was a means to an end and nothing more. He gestured for the main course to be carried in and nodded as it was placed in front of them, for he had decided against an appetiser. Why drag out this meal for longer than was necessary when all he needed to do was to get her to agree to his plan?
He waited for her to come out with some nicety. Maybe some shy little question about why he wanted to see her, but to his annoyance she didn’t seem to be paying him any attention. Even her plate of food was barely touched as she peered over his shoulder and he had to turn round to discover that she was staring at a painting on the wall behind him and not at him.
‘Is that the Kafalahian desert?’ she questioned.
He nodded. ‘Indeed it is. I donated it to the club,’ he conceded reluctantly.
‘I thought I recognised it. That’s Tirabah in the distance, isn’t it? You can just about see the three blue towers, if you look carefully.’
Zayed was torn between admiration for her obvious love of his country and irritation that she was effectively ignoring him. Because he wasn’t used to being ignored. He ate a couple of mouthfuls of the spiced rice, pistachio and pomegranate dish—his favourite and one specially prepared for him whenever he came here—before laying down his fork. He noticed she wasn’t eating, but that didn’t surprise him. Women were often too awed to be able to consume food in his presence.
‘Tell me about yourself, Jane Smith,’ he said suddenly.
Jane put her fork down and looked up at him, grateful to be able to give up her pretence of eating. The food smelt delicious but she was still so churned up with anxiety for Cleo that it had ruined her appetite. She gazed at him suspiciously. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Because I do,’ he answered unhelpfully.
She pursed her lips. ‘Are you unhappy with my work?’
‘No, Jane—but I am growing increasingly unhappy about your inability to answer a straight question.’
She stared at him, willing herself not to be mesmerised by the ebony gleam of his eyes but that was pretty much impossible. She wondered how it was that you could be repulsed and infuriated by a man and yet still your heart would pound like a piston whenever you looked at him.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘How you ended up working in my embassy and having an unrivalled knowledge about my country.’
Ignoring her champagne flute, Jane took a sip of water, slightly confused about where exactly to begin. Did she tell him that she’d been a quiet and serious child who used to lose herself in the world of books? That she’d been more like her academic father than the beautician mother who had been his surprising choice of wife?
No. Zayed Al Zawba wasn’t interested in the personal. He wanted to know about her qualifications—and if she was planning to ask him for a pay-rise, or a loan, then wouldn’t it be in her best interests to be honest about them for once, instead of playing down her achievements for fear that it might come over as boasting?
‘I studied at the School of Oriental and Asian Studies in London and it was there that I became aware of some of Kafalah’s great lyric poets. I became obsessed with one in particular and it was he who inspired me to learn your language so that I could translate his verses.’ She smiled as she thought about the impact those